


Foolish

by JupiterDelphinus



Series: Murder Wives [4]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Character Study, F/F, Femslash, Hannibal - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-24
Updated: 2015-08-24
Packaged: 2018-04-17 00:18:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4645356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JupiterDelphinus/pseuds/JupiterDelphinus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is no doubt in Alana's mind at all that it is Hannibal's hand, Hannibal's will, and Hannibal's Will.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Foolish

Will Graham is no longer playing, and there’s something in Alana that watches with an almost delirious pleasure as Hannibal, again, makes Will fall apart at the seams. There is no doubt in Alana’s mind at all that it is Hannibal’s hand, and Hannibal’s will, and Hannibal’s Will. The Great Red Dragon is not one to be trifled with, but Hannibal is so very good at trifling, and the Red Dragon, an agent of their Red God, doesn’t know he’s being manipulated. He is foolish, and doesn’t know Jack Crawford, Will Graham, and Hannibal Lecter are all manipulating him like a child. Alana thinks of her child, and how easy it is to manipulate him into doing things. She thinks on the times when a simple suggestion of goodness creates a malleable and hard-working toddler, cleaning up his own messes. She wonders, of the men, who will clean this one.

She thinks of the Red Dragon as that child. Hannibal and Will as his parents. So easy to get him to do what they wish, and Alana knew the second the trash rag on the Dragon came out that Frederick Chilton would not see the other end of it well at all. Hence her prudence in declining their oh-so-generous offer for her voice to be the second in that bit of fiction. No. Chilton is fool enough indeed to risk life, limb, and lip for a bigger bite of fame, a shinier spot light, but Alana had a family to think about, after all. Honestly, a hand on the shoulder. She wonders how Chilton became a successful psychiatrist in the first place. Such a simple manipulation, monkeys could do it. 

But Will, oh Will pulls it off masterfully and he is soon shedding that lambskin to show what he is Becoming, such as Alana has, as Jack has, as the Dragon also is. Hannibal is pulling strong strings of parallelism, twisting realities and persons into worse and worse beings and he eats it up. She supposes, having Hannibal tied and wrapped up like a turkey, that she should be less affronted about his rather tactless remark on their prior engagement. Alana doesn’t like to be reminded she was, at one point, a pawn on his chess board. She likes to think now she’s upgraded to bishop at the least. His person suit is gone, his mirth is evident, and the tangle she’s found herself in merely by housing him, in his luxury and finery, begets more and more blood. She removes herself where she can, but the facts of the matter require more concentration than a simple refusal.

They need Hannibal. Will needs Hannibal. But Will is quickly losing his dependency, she notices, and becoming his own little demon. Hannibal does have agency. He has it in Will Graham, and Alana wonders if Will found the same amount of satisfaction in his work as the Dragon did; after all, it was a shared crime, whether the Dragon knows it was or not. And Will, poor, idiotic, self-destructive and manipulated Will, Alana can tell he is seeing and seeing more, and soon, again, there will be no distinctions to be made. He is waking up to the victimization of himself, to his pitiful situation, the situation he has put himself in once again. Foolish, that’s what he is. Foolish. 

She gleans satisfaction from his tortured little face. Watching the murder he committed on a movie screen like a twisted snuff film. She wonders if the agony written there hides a deeper, orgasmic feeling. That tends to happen when you reap what you sow, and he has been sowing death. Reaper of the Red God indeed. He will never learn, and even if his family survives, Alana wonders how much of him will be left to return. Will he be missing his lips; his arm; his mind? So many little, fun choices for Hannibal to pick from. She smells blood in the air. Delivering Hannibal’s snack has afforded her twisted sensibilities an odd sense of hunger. A violent thing. But she no longer has an outlet in Hannibal. She has done all she can legally do, even refusing him his privacies. 

This game that they all play, there is a price. She knew, when Will walked back into her life, there would be a price. She didn’t know it would be this- this sick twisted hunger steeped in blood and blackness and Alana thinks if she had it in her she would cry. She would cry great, heaving sobs that would wretch out of her like a monster was trying to free itself from her body. This awful thing, this horrible thing, this bloody thing. She thought she’d kept it locked away. Locked away so well in a glass case and now she felt foolish. Margot had warned her. Told her. Alana wants to punish her for seeing ahead, for tasting the game and the blood without ever being on contact with it because Margot knew. She knew and she knew and she keeps knowing where others, where Alana, don’t.

Perhaps it is that outsider perspective, having known these men only for a short while; but having known a demon for all her life. Alana hates it. Hates how Margot makes her feel like a fool, like a genius, like a good person, like a bad person, like a person at all. Alana wants to be more than man. She wants to be a demon, a monster with her monsters. On par with Will. But she isn’t, she can’t be, doesn’t want to be, not really. The ink wants to take her, but she wants to remain as clean as she can and it’s war in her. War, like Margot had said it would be. Her mind, like Margot had said it would cost her. Did she feel as Will did upon seeing such violence? Was it pleasure that coursed through her veins? Or disgust? She doesn’t know. She thinks maybe Will doesn’t either, and she is so far removed in comparison. Is she really happy to never have to deal with Chilton again? The agony she saw on Will, she knows she reveled in it. She knows she wouldn’t have before all this mess. The joy of Will’s loss of innocence would have been horror, before all this mess. The security of home would have been strong and caring, not reeking of fear, before all this mess.

She is a mess when she gets home. She hasn’t seen Chilton. She doesn’t know if she can go back, if she wants to go back just to be torn to shreds again. She didn’t realize sooner. She should have. Margot finds her at the door, and Alana wonders what she sees. Alana wonders if those tears did come after all, because Margot looks at her with something akin to pity. It’s a sadness, running and digging so deeply into Margot’s face that Alana knows she’s crying now, because the look on Margot’s face is gut-wrenching. It rips the tears from her because Alana is not who she was before, and not who she was when they met, and not who she had built herself to be in the three years with Margot. She is someone else at the hand of all of this and Margot, sweet, seductive Margot, is the one who is paying the Red God’s price. 

She knows Margot sees the guilt, the confession on her face, the apology that will never pass her lips. Margot knows her too well, but how can she when Alana is lost. Lost, lost. Drifting, drowning in this sea of blood and manipulations. Jack, Will, Hannibal, and the Dragon are taking her piece by piece. She falls, and her knees bruise at the entryway. Margot stands over her, and Alana thinks maybe Margot’s resident, the one that feeds on pain, likes the idea of Alana in pain while Margot stands in power. But Alana looks up and all she sees is pain. Margot keels, graceful, ethereal, next to her, and Alana’s tears hit the marble and glow like stars. 

“Let me fix it,” Margot says. And for some reason, Alana feels in this moment, with her tears like meteors and Margot like a nebula, that Margot can. 

She starts slowly, with almost nonexistent touches. Unreal. Kissing and whispering away tears and stains of black mascara like the ink spilling out of Alana’s very eyes. She unbuttons the suit, the one that didn’t make Alana feel very powerful today, and paints fingertips across each new bit of exposed skin. Her collarbones become touched; Margot is more than man. Alana wonders if, by her relationship, she is more too. Wonders, as Margot touches her like a work of fine art, if she ever needed more than Margot to be Greater. Perhaps, if she had allowed it, she could have become a Goddess, instead of striving for monstrosity. 

The pleasure comes slowly, it is not often one is touched by a Goddess with such reverence, Alana fleetingly thinks it should be the other way around. Has she ever touched Margot with reverence? Her mind is fraying, her thoughts swimming in anger and despair but the pleasure, oh the pleasure. The marble is cold against her spine, and Margot kisses her aching knees as she caresses the pants off of Alana’s body. There are kisses, a million little soft things that Alana can’t count, that Alana shouldn’t be feeling. She is not worth the feeling. But that doesn’t stop Margot. And there is pain, even now in the beauty of it, with the moonlight seeping in through the windows and the soft glow of skin, there is pain. Alana is naked now, and Margot stands to remove the robe she walked down in. She is bare underneath, and Alana wants to cry. Margot had known. She had read the paper and she had known. 

She is beautiful. Has she ever told Margot she is beautiful? But it doesn’t matter now. It isn’t the time for that, because Margot’s skin is on hers, and as her lips descend to Alana’s throat, Alana tenses in anticipation. It’s the same spot Alana has bitten, bruised, scarred Margot. She thinks now, prices high and Margot in debt, it’s time for payback. But the bite doesn’t hurt. The teeth are there, the pressure is soft. Alana moans at the feeling, and thinks herself foolish for ever thinking Margot’s thing in her chest would want to cause her pain. Margot has healed much more than Alana ever has. Tears blink into her eyes, but she holds them back. Alana refuses to cry at beauty. 

Margot never leaves her, breathing into her ear as she palms Alana’s chest. Alana can hear the desire, the sadness, the pleasure in Margot’s pants. She bucks on her own against Margot’s thigh, and can hear Margot’s little moan. If they were different, Alana has no doubt Margot would be whispering sweet nothings into her ear. The moan is more than enough to say the same, and Alana almost begs to be touched. The healing touch of a God. But Margot knows her body well, knows her body in ways Alana doesn’t, so she drags her hands slowly across the tight expanse of Alana’s abdomen, thumbs the scar on her hip, and Alana almost does cry. Margot sighs into her then, and she realizes crying at beauty is what Margot wants her to do. But she can’t, she can’t, not when she has cried already at horrors. Not when Margot is too, too good. So Margot moves her hand down further, guides Alana’s leg softly to rest on her hip, and moves the hand again to where Alana’s need is.

Her other hand has snaked it’s way under Alana, on the cold heat of the floor, and Alana’s arms wrap around Margot’s strong shoulders and they move together. Alana wonders if she’s ever felt the skin of Margot’s back before, really felt it. She ghosts fingertips on Margot’s scars as her pleasure mounts, and feels the stars falling from Margot’s eyes against her shoulder. Margot makes her come, and the pleasure of it all, the sadness of it all, and the teardrops trailing their way down her back make the tears come without her permission, and Margot kisses her. Alana thinks maybe she can taste the pleasure in the salt of her tears, because Margot kisses her like it will be their last kiss. Her mind flits ever-so briefly to Mason, because Margot is tasting her through her tears. 

Her orgasm subsides, and Alana finds herself being lifted and carried through the mansion to their bedroom, and Margot is strong. Stronger than Alana thought, in more ways than Alana thought possible. The sheets are unmade, Margot had been sleeping. How late was it? Margot places her with delicacy on the bed, and her fingers again find their way to Alana’s need. And Alana needs, needs more and more and always. Margot enters her like she is trying to memorize Alana from the inside out, as if she hasn’t already. She curls her fingers slow, and deep, and Alana grips hard with her fingertips against Margot above her because it is too much, too much, and not enough at all. Her breathing is heavy, and the sound of silk sheets sliding against each other beneath her reminds her of the ocean.

Margot pulls the orgasm out of her so deeply, so completely, Alana didn’t know it could ever feel like that. Feel like her whole world stopped existing, and in the moment, there was only Margot. Alana comes to as though she had walked through a dream. Margot’s eyes are deep, and carry meanings Alana can’t decipher now. She tries to move her hand, to return Margot’s God-like pleasures with the best mortal ones she can offer, but Margot stops her hand. She kisses each finger, the palm, Alana’s eyelids, then goes to pleasure her again, and Alana doesn’t know whether it’s the fifth or the eighth time that she finally succumbs until there is no thought in her mind. Hazily, she feels the soft skin of Margot on her back, holding her, protecting her, and she feels whole.

Alana’s mind clears just enough before sleep to think how foolish she is for never telling Margot she’s in love.


End file.
